


Tomorrow brings them true

by asterismal (asterisms)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, District 1 Tom Riddle, District 10 Harry Potter, M/M, Violence, and all the warnings that come with it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23403907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterisms/pseuds/asterismal
Summary: The boy from District 1 is staring again.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Millicent Bulstrode & Harry Potter
Comments: 110
Kudos: 1068
Collections: Corona Challenge





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [elements](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elements/pseuds/elements) in the [CoronaChallenge](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/CoronaChallenge) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Harry walks into the Arena fully prepared to die. He doesn't understand why Tom Riddle, the ruthless Career from District 1, has different plans for the both of them.

The boy from District 1 is staring again. 

Harry does his best to ignore it, focusing instead on the weight of his knives in his hands, on the way his sparring partner shifts as she prepares to lunge. This isn’t the first time he’s fought Millicent. Most days, sparring was the only thing they had to pass the time once work in the pens was done for the day, so he knows exactly how worried he should be. The mace she holds now is lightweight, made of rubber instead of metal, but a hit would still hurt, and he’d like to avoid it if he can. 

Her eyes narrow, giving her away as they always do, and she moves. All thoughts of the staring Career are driven from his head. 

For the most part, they’re evenly matched. Where Millicent beats him for sheer strength, Harry has always been faster, and she’s quicker to tire. 

As he ducks a blow that would have knocked out at least one tooth, if not broken his nose, Harry sees the boy has moved closer, not even pretending not to watch. 

The moment’s distraction is all Millicent needs, and with a hit to his chest that knocks him off his feet, he finds himself flat on his back, Millicent’s knee pressed against his hip as she looks down at him with a frown.

“You’re distracted,” she tells him, and Harry glares, his cheeks flushed. He can’t deny it. “What is it?”

The last thing he wants is for her to know why. 

She’s always been a bit mean, and that was  _ before  _ they were entered into a death tournament, where every weakness is fair game. He doesn’t know if the Career is a weakness, yet, but he could be. 

He pokes her with the blunted tip of his knife. “Let me up.” 

But Millicent is looking at the Career, whose staring has grown no less blatant. “Is it him?” she asks, tilting her head his way.

Harry thumps his head back to the mat. “I hate you.”

“Shut up.” Millicent taps his chest with her mace, making him wince. She grins, then. “It’s mutual.”

Harry sighs. He doesn't know why he bothered trying to hide it. He should have known she’d notice. “Everyone thinks you’re stupid, you know.”

“I know.” She looks proud. 

“Well, hurry up and show them otherwise. I’m tired of being your only victim.” 

Millicent only laughs at him, mocking as ever, but when she stands, she offers him her hand, pulling him to his feet. She claps him on the shoulder, and there’s some comfort in the pain. “Get it together, Potter,” she says, “You’re the only one here that’s tolerable. Don’t let some pretty face ruin that.”

Harry snorts. 

“Always the charmer, Bulstrode,” he says dryly, “I think I’ll kill you first.”

Millicent laughs again, a wild edge to the sound that wasn’t there before. “You can try.”

For the next hour, Harry feels the Career’s eyes on him as he moves through the training room, testing out the facilities the Capitol has so generously provided. All of it is nicer than he’s used to, but he gets the hang of it pretty quickly. Quick enough, at least, that he shows no weakness, and no one bothers to pay him any attention.

No one, that is, but the boy from District 1. 

Keeping hold of the axe he’s been preparing to throw, Harry turns sharply to face the boy, glaring. “What the fuck is your problem?” he demands. 

The boy looks startled. Harry doesn’t buy it for a moment. “I don’t have a problem,” he says. 

“Yeah? Then what’s with all the staring?”

The boy grins. Like most kids from the richer districts, his face has been sculpted; he looks too handsome to be real. His eyes alone are disarming—a deep red that gleams in the bright lights of the training facility. 

Harry glares harder. 

“No need to be defensive,” he says, coming closer. Harry doesn’t step back, though part of him wants to. “I was only admiring your form.”

Harry’s mouth drops open in shock. “You—” He feels his cheeks heat, equal parts flustered and furious. Is it not enough, he thinks, that he’s been entered into a death tournament? Must he deal with this, too? “Well, stop it.”

“Hmm.” The boy circles him, and Harry forces himself not to turn in place, though his shoulders tense to have the boy at his back. Once he’s finished his circle, the boy stops before him, even closer than before. “No, I don’t think I will.’

Harry bristles, hating the fact that he has to look up to meet his eyes. “Then go admire it from somewhere else.”

The boy laughs at him, and Harry’s had enough.

He stalks forward, shoving past the boy as he looks for Millicent. Even in a good mood, the sour look on her face is enough to drive even the worst assholes away. If anyone can help him, it’s her.

But before he can get far, the boy grabs him by the wrist.

Harry whirls to face him, opening his mouth to spew the vilest insults he can think of. Before he can, the boy says, “Spar with me.”

For a moment, Harry thinks he really might lose it. His chest feels tight. His palms itch. His fingers clench around the axe’s grip. But instead of charging the other boy, or shouting, or giving him a taste of the axe, head first, he only stares, his pulse beating heavy in his throat. 

He bares his teeth in what hardly deserves to be called a grin, and for the first time, the Career looks almost nervous. 

Harry turns his wrist in the boy’s hold, until he can grip him in turn and pull him forward, off balance. He says, a vicious sort of glee rising in his chest, “I will.” 

“My name’s Tom, by the way,” the boy tells him as they stand opposite each other in one of the sparring rings. Where Harry expected the other boy to choose something sharp for a weapon, he’s gone for a staff instead. 

Harry doesn’t bother answering, too busy checking the tape on his hands. He’s chosen not to use knives, this time, because he doesn’t want to give too much away. He doesn’t want to look dependent. 

Instead, he’s kept hold of his axe, and his other hand is free.

As he prepares, he forces himself to take deep, even breaths. No killing, he reminds himself. And no maiming, either. They’re only allowed to kill each other when the cameras are rolling. 

What a fucking joke. 

He tightens his grip on the axe, until his fingers ache, then releases again. 

There’s something building, deep in his chest. A fire that burns hotter with every word he bites back, with every snide comment or disdainful look from the Careers. Especially this one, he thinks, as he stares down the boy from District 1. 

Tom. What a boring name—so unlike all the others. He wonders where it comes from.

Then he decides he doesn’t care. 

He never wanted this, but he’s here. 

He’s  _ here.  _

He’s going to make it mean something, even if all it ever means is a glimmer of fear in this boy’s red eyes. “Ready?” he asks. 

Tom nods. “Ready.” 

And they begin. 

Fighting Tom is nothing like fighting Millicent. For all that he’s just as tall as she is, he lacks the muscle mass, the stocky limbs, that make her such a threat. No, he’s threatening in a different way. 

He’s better trained.

His reach is longer. 

He’s faster, but he’s not as fast as Harry. 

He doesn’t tire as easily. 

This, Harry learns when he ducks beneath Tom’s arm, just barely dodging a punch to his throat. He thrusts himself forward, head-butting Tom in his solar plexus and knocking him back, though he doesn’t fall. As Harry takes advantage of his stumble to breathe, Tom looks largely unruffled. His cheeks are flushed, and a bead of sweat drips down the side of his face, but he’s barely breathing heavy at all. 

“The others think you’re soft,” Tom tells him. He’s grinning as he says it, and there’s a look in his eyes that’s half-pleasure, half-wild. 

This is another difference.

When Millicent fights, she retreats into silence, letting her strength speak for her. Tom, though. Tom is a talker, and a clever one. 

“Shut up.”

“I thought so too, you know,” Tom continues. 

Harry grits his teeth. Instead of talking back, he lunges forward, swinging. Tom blocks him, and they're close enough that Harry can see flecks of russet in his eyes, like dried blood. “Shut up,” he says again, gasping.

Tom grins. “And you are soft, aren’t you?” 

Harry spins away, kicking out as he goes and knocking Tom off balance, though he recovers before Harry can get another strike in. “Shut  _ up.”  _

“But you’re angry, too.” There’s something manic in Tom’s expression, something that makes Harry want to back away, to bow out. But he doesn’t. “You hate me.”

Harry laughs—because it’s true, but it isn’t the whole truth. 

“You’re not special,” he says, baring his teeth in a grin. “I hate all of you.”

“Oh?”

Harry snorts, looking for an opening and seeing nothing. “You and every other fucking Career. You’re all the same.”

Tom tsks. “I assure you, we are not.” 

“No?” Harry ducks a blow to his face. “How’s that?”

“For one, they’re all under the impression that you’re worthless, both as prey and an ally.”

“And you aren’t?” Harry asks, skeptical. 

Tom smirks. “I am not. In fact, I have a proposal for you.”

Harry almost groans. Instead, he darts forward, missing Tom’s head by only a hair's width, and it makes him feel better. Good enough to say, “Let’s hear it, then.” 

“Work with me.”

Harry is surprised enough by the suggestion that he freezes, just long enough for Tom to take advantage, and he finds himself flat on his back for the second time today, looking up into Tom’s triumphant expression. 

“What?” 

“You heard me,” Tom says. He presses down against Harry’s chest, making him wheeze. “In the arena. I want you to work with me.”

“You mean…” Harry shifts, and Tom moves with him, keeping him on the floor. “An alliance?”

Tom grins, pleased. “Exactly that.”

“No.” He says it before he can think about it, but he finds he doesn’t want to take it back. 

He’s seen the games before; they all have. The Careers are always the first to turn on each other, splintered by their egos, their lust for the spotlight. 

He can’t risk it. 

“No?” Tom asks, and he has the gall to sound surprised, as if he expected Harry to leap at the chance. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t trust you.”

Tom scoffs. “You shouldn’t trust anyone here.”

“Oh, good,” Harry says, “I guess we  _ do _ agree on something.” 

Tom narrows his eyes. “It’d be to your benefit, you realize.” He leans down, and Harry squirms beneath him, trying to find a position that will let him breathe easy. “The other Careers are vicious, this year. I can take care of you.”

“Yeah?” Harry attempts to buck Tom off, but the Career doesn’t move. He’s too heavy. “In exchange for what?”

Tom leans down, closer, until Harry can feel his breath against his cheek. “Why, the pleasure of your company, of course.” 

And Harry snarls. 

He attempts to lunge off the mat, to take a bite out of Tom’s cheek, the rules be damned, but Tom pulls away too quickly. He’s laughing, Harry notes through the heated fog in his head. 

“Fuck you,” he says, all but spitting the words. 

“Oh, don’t be that way,” Tom says, pouting as he frees one hand to trail his finger down Harry’s cheek. “We’d be perfect, you and I. I’d protect you.”

And Harry is so tired, suddenly. He’s tired of the stares, of the evaluations, of these  _ goddamned _ Careers with their fucking  _ scare tactics  _ and their  _ deals.  _ He’s tired of all of it.

So the next time Tom leans closer, too busy taunting Harry—goading him for some purpose he doesn’t know—to pay attention to the way Harry is moving beneath him, he takes advantage. 

He twists, kneeing Tom between his legs and planting his foot, using it as leverage to turn them over, until he’s straddling Tom’s chest, the handle of his axe held against his throat and keeping him there. As Tom looks up at him, his eyes wide, Harry bares his teeth in a snarl. 

He leans down, delights in the way Tom’s breath hitches, and says, “I can protect  _ myself.”  _

“That was embarrassing,” Millicent tells him, later. Then, “You looked good together.”

Harry’s face flushes, and he claps his hands over his cheeks as if that could keep her from noticing. 

“Shut up,” he mutters, making his escape before she can say anything more. 

He retreats to the cavernous bathroom, locking the door behind him. Millicent has no sense of boundaries when it comes to needling him, and she’d absolutely follow him in if he didn’t. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure tributes weren't actually allowed to spar with each other during training, but I'm the author now so it's allowed :))


	2. Chapter 2

The last day of training comes too soon, and not soon enough. After, they have an entire day free. Supposedly it’s to give them a chance to rest, but in reality it’s taken up by the many hours of prep they must go through before they can be trusted to be interviewed on live television before the entirety of Panem.

And then it’s interview day. 

“Harry,” Millicent says, staring in horror at her reflection, “I need you to kill me. Immediately.” 

Harry winces in sympathy. “It’s not so bad,” he lies.

Millicent turns her dark glare his way, and he takes a faltering step back, raising his hands in surrender. Okay, maybe it is that bad. They all underwent the same washing when they first arrived—their skin buffed smooth, clearing dirt and scars alike. 

But this… This is  _ worse.  _

Their stylist has put Millicent in a dress. If she weren’t so uncomfortable, if Harry didn’t  _ know _ her, he might say she looks pretty. But because he does know her, he can only look critically upon the entire ensemble. 

He wonders if they’re going to make him equally pretty. 

He almost hopes they do. At the very least, it might make Millicent feel better. 

When she flexes, the fabric of the dress stretches thin over her muscled back. If she were any bigger, it might tear. 

Harry goes to find a knife. 

By the time the stylist comes back to collect him, they’ve fixed Millicent’s ensemble so it looks less like a dress and more like a tunic, the kind they used to wear as children before the Peacekeepers decided gender mattered and forced them into uniforms. She stands taller now, and Harry sighs happily, pleased with their work. 

When she turns to grin at him, the feathers woven into the braided crown atop her head shine. 

He doesn’t know how the crowd will receive her, with her square face and solid frame, built for power over the Capitol’s augmented beauty, but he finds it difficult to care in the face of her comfort. 

The door slides open, then, and their stylist greets them with a shriek. 

If the look on Millicent’s face wasn’t enough to make the change worth it, this absolutely would. He shares a laugh with Millicent and ushers the stylist out the door, locking their arms together and reminding him of their time frame.

If the man wants to get him ready in time, they’d better start now. 

The interviews are worse than he’d feared. His outfit is fine; the stylist had clearly been inspired by the impromptu modification of Millicent’s dress and put him in a tunic as well. His hair is full of feathers, and his makeup reminds him of dirt, only, you know,  _ fancy  _ dirt.

_ Rustic,  _ his stylist had said, a frantic look on his face that warned Harry not to argue. It’s all very  _ rustic.  _

No, his appearance isn’t the problem. 

The problem is Tom.

He’s the first of the tributes to interview, and so Harry is forced to watch as he effortlessly charms the crowd and host alike. For the most part, it goes as he expected. And then Tom ruins it.

“So, Tom,” the interviewer, a man named Gilderoy Lockhart who’s dressed entirely in gold to match his shining hair, is saying, leaning forward with an eager grin, “we’re all dying to know: why are you here?”

Harry suspects the question is supposed to be deep. 

“Well, Gilderoy,” Tom says, and something about his voice is different, now. Harry narrows his eyes at the screen, looking for answers in Tom’s face. “To be honest, I came here for glory; I wanted to prove myself.”

“A noble pursuit,” Lockhart says, winking at the crowd as they cheer. Then he leans even closer. “Only, why the past tense, Tom? Has something changed?” 

Tom clears his throat. He shifts in his seat, and he  _ blushes _ . 

At the sight, the crowd goes wild. 

“Something has,” Tom says. He looks to the crowd, as if he’s nervous. “I came here for glory, it’s true. But now, although the games haven’t even begun, I’ve found something else.”

Lockhart gasps, pressing his hands to his chest, over his heart. “ _ No,”  _ he says, looking delighted. Clearly, he has some idea of where this is going. “Tell us more, Tom. We’re all dying to know.”

Tom laughs and runs a hand through his hair. “It’s, well. I’ve found… love.”

Harry stills, not daring to breathe. He feels Millicent’s eyes on him. 

He thinks he might throw up.

“Love!” Lockhart echoes, as if it’s the greatest thing he’s ever heard. Harry can’t relate. “How exciting!” He claps his hands together. “Who’s the lucky tribute? Perhaps your lovely peer from District 1?” 

Tom ducks his head in a well-practiced show of bashfulness. “No, actually,” he says. When he looks back up, his eyes are bright. “He’s from another District.”

“He?” Lockhart asks, playful. “Tom, my dear, do you hear that? That’s the sound of hopeful hearts breaking all over Panem.”

Tom looks down again, demure. “I’m sorry to hear it,” he says, and the crowd seems to sigh as one, entirely taken in by his charms. 

Harry wants to storm on stage, to force him to take back what he  _ knows  _ is coming, but he doesn’t. It would only make everything worse. 

Lockhart reaches forward, gripping Tom by the hand. “Inquiring minds want to know, Tom.” The crowd waits, utterly silent. “Who’s caught your eye?”

Tom looks directly at the camera. 

Harry can’t tear his eyes away.

He says, looking sickeningly besotted, “Harry Potter, from District 10.” 

At the sound of his name, his image appears on screen behind the platform where Tom and Lockhart sit. It’s one of the first shots they took of him when he arrived, after he’d been thoroughly washed and styled. He’s never given much thought to how he looks until now. 

He wonders what they’re all thinking. Then again, it hardly matters. That picture doesn’t look like him. 

It’s too… perfect. 

Like everything else in this thrice damned Capitol. 

The crowd doesn’t seem to mind. If he thought they loved Tom before, now it’s almost embarrassing. Then again, he thinks darkly, it makes sense.

How do you make a child murder fest more exciting? You toss in a romance.

If he wasn’t so busy cursing Tom’s name, he might call him brilliant. 

By the time it’s his turn to be interviewed, he still hasn’t stopped cursing Tom in his head. At least that’s one good thing about this, he thinks as he takes his seat across from Lockhart. Seething rage has left no room at all for nerves. 

“So,” Lockhart says, “Harry Potter, from District 10.”

Harry grins, drawing upon his many years of practice with the Dursleys to make sure it looks sincere. He’s going to need them all to get through this. “That’s me.”

To Lockhart’s credit, he spends the first half of Harry’s interview on the standard questions, asking about his childhood, his goals, his purpose. 

Then, his smile shifts, and Harry braces himself. 

“Now,” he says, “let’s get to the good stuff.” The crowd roars in approval. “Tell us, Harry, darling, did you know?”

Harry would rather die.

He forces a laugh instead. “Honestly?” he asks, grinning sheepishly, “I didn’t.” 

Lockhart widens his eyes in exaggerated surprise. 

“Well, that doesn’t say much for your powers of observation, my friend,” he says with a wide grin, and the crowd laughs. “Because it’s clear to me that boy is  _ lost  _ on you.” 

Harry ducks his head. “Well, it’s clear to me that he must be a very good actor.”

“Oh?” Lockhart leans forward, and his smile turns sharklike. “Is that an accusation I hear?”

Harry widens his eyes. “Not at all!” he says, as if the suggestion itself is appalling. “Only, he never gave  _ me _ any sign. The last time I had a crush, I made a complete fool of myself, so I suppose I admire his restraint.” 

“Restraint?” Lockhart asks, his eyebrows raised. “If I remember correctly, that boy professed his love on live television. That doesn’t sound very restrained to me.” Before Harry can even attempt to respond, Lockhart turns to the screen. “In fact, let’s play that back, shall we?”

The crowd cheers, and Harry takes a moment to curse Tom again. Not only did he get the crowd on his side, he made sure they would still be talking about him once his turn was up. 

As the grating sound of Tom’s voice washes over him, he pastes another smile on his face, settling in for the long haul.

He just  _ knows _ Millicent will be laughing at him later. 

***

As Harry stares down at the platform that will deliver him into the arena, he wonders if someone will need to push him forward. His feet feel as if they’re made of lead. He can’t move.

He can’t  _ breathe.  _

But he must. 

His hands tremble; his legs feel weak. As he struggles to breathe, his stomach flutters with nerves. He doesn’t want to do this. 

He lifts one foot, places it on the platform. Then the other.

All that’s left to do is wait.

And then the platform begins to rise. For a wild moment, he considers leaping off, but he knows they’ll only put him back. There's no escape, now. There never was. 

He doesn’t know how long he rises for. 

All he knows is one moment, he blinks, and the next, the sun is in his eyes, gleaming off the Cornucopia in the center of the clearing. Supplies litter the open field around it. Surrounding the ring of tributes, a dark forest waits. 

Only a few meters away, there’s a backpack. It looks full.

Just a little beyond it is what looks like a baton, or maybe a collapsible staff. He’d prefer a set of daggers, but he can’t afford to be picky, and he knows it. He tenses on his platform, getting ready to run for them. 

The countdown begins.

He looks up, and his gaze locks on Millicent, who’s standing almost exactly opposite him across the clearing. She nods. He can’t see the look on her face.

He swallows heavily, then nods back. 

Somewhere in the circle, he knows Tom Riddle is waiting, but he forces himself not to look for him.

Just get the backpack, he tells himself, and a weapon if you can. 

Then get out. 

The bloodbath is coming, and he doesn’t want to stick around for it. 

A cannon sounds, and he’s off his platform like a shot, sprinting for the supplies he wants. He snags the backpack with one hand and slings it over one shoulder, already throwing himself forward to snatch the baton he’d eyed earlier. 

He grabs it, but so does someone else. 

For one breathless moment, Harry stares at the girl with wide eyes, and she stares back at him. Her eyes are blue, he sees. She’s so small. Then, the moment passes, and Harry tugs sharply on the baton, pulling her off balance before he kicks out with one leg, catching her in the stomach. 

Her grip slips. 

She falls to the ground, moaning.

He hears the sounds of weapons clashing, of bodies breaking and beating against each other, and he doesn’t stop to look before he sprints for the forest, the baton clutched tight in one hand. 

As he disappears beyond the tree line, he hears a girl begin to scream. He wonders if it’s the girl he struck, or if she escaped the bloodbath.

He doesn’t look back.

He doesn’t want to know. 

That night, nine canons sound.

Against a dark, starless sky, a pair of familiar blue eyes stares down at him before the girl’s face is replaced with another, and the list goes on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented or left a kudos on the first chapter, and thanks to everyone else who took the time to read it!
> 
> This is such a fun AU so I'm glad there's interest :))


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic has made some strides toward earning its M rating thanks to this chapter getting away from me. A single paragraph in the draft turned into a full scene, and. Well. It's violent. Consider yourself warned. 
> 
> Also there will now be 5 chapters instead of 4.

He finds Millicent on the third day.

She’s bleeding from her left shoulder, and her face is streaked with mud. “I got one,” she tells him as he runs clean water over the cut, carefully washing it free of dirt. When she flinches away from the pain, he holds her still. “The girl from District 2, with the black hair. I wasn’t—but she was _laughing,_ and I—“

Harry clenches his jaw, keeps his touch gentle. “Good,” he says, interrupting before she can keep justifying herself. He doesn’t need to hear it. All that matters is—“I’m glad you’re safe.”

And anyway, the only good Career is a dead Career, as far as he's concerned. At the very least, they're all safer for it.

Millicent snorts.

For a long moment, there’s only silence, then, “Am I?”

He isn’t surprised by the question. He isn’t surprised by the waver in her voice—though it's so unlike her—as she asks it, either, and not for the first time he wants to bury a knife in the eyes of every out of touch asshole in the Capitol who’s watching, of every gamemaker who had a hand in it. He uses his sleeve to pat the skin around the wound dry. It already looks less irritated. When she looks back at him over her shoulder, a question in her eyes, in the set of her jaw, he nods. “As you can be,” he says. “For now.”

“Right.” Some of the tension in her shoulders falls away. “I’d wondered.”

I know, Harry thinks but doesn’t say. Instead he sways forward, presses his forehead against her back between her shoulder blades, and takes a moment just to listen to her breathe. He hears the whine of a camera drone settling nearby, and his hands ball into fists. He wonders if they’re on display right now, projected into the home of every fucking family in Panem. 

He bets they aren’t; the people want to see action, not two kids promising not to kill each other in their sleep.

“And me?” he asks eventually. “Am I safe?”

Millicent twists to face him, and her stubborn expression alone is enough to put him at ease. “Don’t be stupid, Potter,” she says with a scowl. She grabs him by the back of the neck, knocks their foreheads together and holds him there. She says, “Of course you are.”

Harry nods, bites his tongue.

For now, they’re in this together, and it’s enough.

It has to be.

By unspoken agreement, they stick to the denser parts of the forest, taking shelter in the thick underbrush as they rely on foraging and the game they catch in makeshift snares for food, lighting small fires to cook with whenever they’re willing to risk it. Neither of them cares to wait for sponsored drops that will never come—Millicent wasted no time on charm that doesn’t suit her, and the most interesting thing about Harry, much to his seething annoyance, is Tom.

Without him, he doubts he'll be receiving anything.

It makes him want to kill something.

When he shares this with Millicent, she snorts. “You’re in luck, Potter,” she says dryly, poking at the embers of their latest fire with a stick. “Give it a few days, and I’m sure you’ll have no other choice.”

Then, on their fourth day together, they flee from a forest fire and land right into a trap.

A band of tributes from the middle districts attacks while they’re still blinking smoke from their eyes.

As a blade whistles through the air beside his head, Harry ducks away. He kicks the legs out from underneath one tribute before striking another in the throat with a punch that leaves her gasping on the forest floor. Behind him, a scream cuts into a gurgle, and he feels a spray of blood on the back of his neck. By then, the first tribute who attacked has risen with a yell, brandishing his axe.

Harry blocks the heavy blow with his baton, and his arms and shoulders twinge with the strain.

The blade sticks when the boy tries to back off for another hit. Harry tugs him off balance before kneeing him in the crotch, wrenching the axe from his grip. Useless now, he tosses the baton and the axe stuck in it away.

Before his attacker can rise again, Harry darts closer, grips him by the ear and twists, pulling down until—

Flesh tears, and the boy is screaming as he drops.

Harry doesn’t think about the way it felt, of the sound it made; he doesn’t have the time.

A weight lands on his back—metal kisses his throat—and he falls into a roll, tossing off his latest attacker before she can finish him off. As he scrambles away from her, kicking out when she tries to grab him by the ankle, his hand lands on the her lost knife—a butcher’s knife by the feel of its familiar weight—and he lifts it just in time to bury it into her thigh when she comes back for another try. He surges closer before she can really feel it, shoving her onto her back. As her dark eyes focus on him, he pulls the knife free, the blood-slick handle almost slipping from his hold.

She fists her hand in his collar, baring bloody teeth. Her neck is already starting to bruise where he struck it. “Finish it,” she hisses, and Harry—

He does.

Before he can think, before he can hesitate, he slits her throat. If he missed the artery on her leg, he doesn’t miss this one.

He turns his face away from the spray.

Then a hand lands on his shoulder, and it’s only Millicent’s hold around his wrist that stops him from burying the knife into her gut. “Easy, Potter,” she says, and he realizes he’s shaking.

He looks around. The boy with the torn ear is wheezing on the ground, curled in on himself. Another lies dead just beyond him, dead by Millicent’s hand.

“I thought there were four of them,” he says when he realizes she’s waiting for him to say something.

“There were.” She spits a glob of blood and saliva onto the grass then wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. It comes away red. “The fourth ran away, the fucking coward.”

She offers that same hand to Harry.

First he recoils, then he looks at his own. He breathes in; he takes her hand. “Are you alright?” he asks as he pulls himself to his feet, looking her over for injuries. Some bruising, he sees. A cut on her chin that needs to be cleaned. Nothing serious.

“Fine.” She lets go of his hand to stretch her arms over her head. Her back cracks. “You?”

Harry licks his teeth and tastes iron. “Also fine.”

“You’re shaking,” Millicent says, eyeing him skeptically.

“I’m… upset,” he says, and it doesn’t seem big enough of a word to describe what he’s feeling, but it’ll have to do. “I’m not hurt.”

At least, not much. 

“Ah.” Her gaze lands on the boy with the torn ear, and Harry’s does too. He holds the knife tighter. “Fair enough.”

Fair, Harry thinks as he watches the boy cry, has nothing to do with this. He ignores the way it hurts, the way it _aches_ in the pit of his chest. He drops to his knees with a thud beside the shivering boy—and he _is_ just a boy, certainly younger than his own seventeen years. He reaches out to hold him still, opens his mouth to say a warning, _anything,_ then stops. He offers no comfort. He doesn’t apologize.

He makes it quick.

Behind him, he hears Millicent rifling through the backpacks she finds in a tangle of roots at the edge of the ambush site. “They’re well stocked,” she says when he sits beside her to help, her voice flat. “Must’ve had sponsors.”

Harry only hums in reply.

He wipes his hands on his uniform trousers, tells himself it doesn’t bother him, the way the blood itches as it dries.

This is the first time he’s killed a person with his own hands. He’s no stranger to death, not after his years working the pens and the slaughterhouses, but this… This is different; he doesn’t like it. When he blinks, he sees pale hair and wide blue eyes set in a young face. He wonders if _these_ faces will be added to the reel, if he’ll carry them until he dies too. He wants to shout, suddenly, to get rid of some of this pressure threatening to crack him open, but there might be other tributes nearby who would hear and come running.

It’s not a risk they can afford; he swallows it down, and it burns.

Millicent whistles then, impressed at one of her finds. When he looks away from his own bag, he sees a set of twin knives in her hands. She twirls them clumsily, then—catching him looking—presents them to him handle first. “Well?” she asks when he hesitates. “Go on.”

He takes them, and his hands feel at home against the worn leather wrapped around the handles. They’re lighter than the pair he carried back in District 10, but they should serve him well enough.

He turns them in his grip, and he feels a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, though grinning feels wrong. For the first time since he entered this damn arena, he feels safe.

The corpses at his back are still cooling. 

“So?” Millicent demands.

“They’re perfect,” he tells her, and this time he manages a grin for her. “Thank you, Millicent.”

“Use ‘em well; that’ll be thanks enough.” She taps his shoulder with her fist. “Gut the next asshole who comes for us, and I’ll feel even better.”

Harry snorts. He’d feel bad for laughing, but.

Well.

He busies himself with digging through the rest of the bags and reminds himself to find the axe lodged in his discarded baton for her before they move on. A weapon for a weapon. He hopes the gamemakers appreciate the balance of it when they play it back.

The day’s cannons sound as he takes the first watch.

Last night, there were no deaths to report. Tonight, there are four—the two Harry killed, the one who died at Millicent’s hand, and a vaguely familiar girl from District 8 who was kind to him during training. As he watches their faces disappear, his thoughts drift to Tom. He wonders what the other boy is doing.

He wonders how many of the deaths so far have been by his hand.

When he realizes where his thoughts have turned, he sucks in a sharp breath and pulls his knives into his lap. If he has time to think about Tom _fucking_ Riddle, he has time to make sure his new blades stay sharp.

“How many left?” is the first thing Millicent asks when he wakes her for her watch.

The question lands heavier than he expected. “Seven.”

“Fuck,” Millicent says, quiet.

Harry rolls over, peers up at her as she leans back against a moss covered trunk. From this angle, he can see the beat of her pulse in her throat, the way her broad chest rises as she breathes. Everywhere else, she looks like she’s been cut from stone, she holds herself so still, so tense. 

“Hey, Millie?” When she looks down at him, something in his face makes her frown and scoot closer, until she can lie down beside him. He bends his knees, presses them against hers. He knows what he’s about to ask isn’t fair or kind; he asks it anyway. “If it’s you… If you have to kill me—“ He stops; the words are too big. Forcing himself to breathe through it, he says, “Make it quick.”

Millicent punches his shoulder. Hard. “Asshole,” she spits. The muscles in her arms bulge, like she’s about to push herself away from him. “I won’t—“

He grabs her before she can go. “Please,” he says, and he _hates_ it. The pit in his chest burns. He thinks he might be sick. “Please—promise me.”

He tugs her back to him, until she’s close enough that he can press his forehead against hers, until they’re breathing the same air. She’s trembling. She’s furious, and, distantly, so is he—at himself for asking, at the Capitol for making a world where he has to.

“ _Fine,”_ she says, her voice think. “Fine, Harry, but only if—”

“Anything,” he promises.

She holds his gaze steady. “Swear you’ll do the same for me.”

And suddenly he understands why she punched him. He bites his lip so he doesn’t say anything he’ll regret. He offers his hand, and their pinkies lock together. “I swear.”

The next two days pass easy, like the gamemakers know they need a break. Or, more realistically, like there’s something more exciting happing beyond their little bubble, and it’s not yet their turn to be messed with.

During their second afternoon of peace, they stop beside a quick-moving river. The sun is out today, and the shallows near the edge are almost warm. Millicent dips her feet in after peeling off her socks, leaving her shoes with her pack. Harry moves to perch nearby, watching the shadows of fish moving beneath the surface.

“I think I’ll buy my parents a car.”

Harry blinks, surprised. “Sorry?”

“After I win,” Millicent explains, kicking at the water, grimacing when some splashes back at her face. “Our house is near the road to the packing plants. Dad likes to watch the trucks pass by, when he can. Says he likes ‘em.”

“Huh.” Harry realizes then that since his name was drawn, he hasn’t once stopped to think about winning. Or what comes after. “That’s nice of you.”

“What about you? Any grand plans, Potter?”

They’re ignoring, then, that only one tribute can win, and that it probably won’t be either of them. Fine. “Well,” he says after a beat, “I’m definitely not wasting a single cent on the Dursleys.”

Millicent sneers, likely remembering the time she broke Dudley’s nose when he tried picking on someone his own size for once. “Good.”

Harry leans back onto his hands, staring at the river without really seeing it. “I suppose I’d give some money to the Weasleys, if they’d accept it.” They probably wouldn’t, not since Charlie… He shakes his head, like that could make him forget. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t have any plans.”

“Boring.”

Harry scoffs, finally getting his feet wet just to kick some water at her. “Shut up,” he says. Then, “Maybe I’d get myself some therapy.”

“Damn.” Millicent flops back onto her back, her arms spread out wide. “Boring _and_ sad.”

Harry laughs. “Yeah,” he says, ignoring the fact that it isn’t funny at all, not really, “that’s me.”

Later that night, while Millicent watches over their camp, Harry heads off to check their snares. Earlier, they saw the glow of a fire through the trees, but they chose to move on instead of starting a fight, only settling when they were far enough away that they couldn’t see the smoke. Since that fire, they’ve seen no signs of anyone else nearby.

It’s the only reason Millicent agreed to let him go off on his own.

He’s freeing the newly cooling carcass of a rabbit from the wire when he hears it. A sound that doesn’t belong.

Footsteps—too light to be Millicent’s.

Leaving the rabbit where it is, he picks up his discarded knife and unsheathes the other, seeking refuge in a deeper shadow and tucking the knives behind his back so the blades don’t gleam. A tall body melts into view only moments later, and Harry holds his breath, shifting forward onto the balls of his feet and getting ready to strike.

Overhead, he hears the whine of a camera drone coming closer.

The boy bends on one knee beside the carcass, his face still in shadow. He brushes two fingers over its flank, and Harry grimaces. He’ll be able to see the place where Harry struck it, to feel its body is still warm; he’ll know Harry is close by. When the boy lifts his head to look around, Harry finally gets a good look at his face, and his control slips just enough that his teeth click together as his jaw clenches.

The boy’s head snaps to face the sound, and Harry leaps.

He knocks him to his back in the dirt, holds a knife to his throat as he pins him, and—“Hello, Harry,” Tom Riddle says. The pale light of the moon catches in his teeth as he grins. “It’s so _good_ to see you again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope the update was worth the wait kasdlfja also I must confess that Millicent is one of my favorite parts of this fic, so she kind of took over this chapter
> 
> There will be more Tom (and more of the vicious!Harry he inspires) next time!
> 
> Find me on tumblr (if you'd like) at [being-luminous](https://being-luminous.tumblr.com/)


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